IT'S MINE! DON'T TOUCH!

So I work at a bank where it's almost as important to get new checking accounts as it is to run a transaction properly. In fact, it may be more important to get new accounts than to be accurate. Not only is it important, we get bonuses based on how many people open up accounts. I just got a taste of my first bonus and I'm hungry for more. I've never been commissioned based, but it's definitely profitable.

So today, I was helping someone who didn't have an account with us. I tried to softly sell her on an account: she politely declined. I went back to my desk to run my transaction; I was in drive thru and didn't have a station up front where she was. I come back to my customer and find the closest teller giving my customer her card and telling her to come back to her whenever she wants to open that account.

Now, I know, normally, you'd want to hate this teller. How dare she, you reply. But I like this teller. I like everyone I work with except for one person. And I felt more hurt and betrayed than anything else. And I felt like it was time to step up my game. Coming from a sales background, I know what this means. But this whole interaction spurred something much deeper in me.

I have "a thing" about my stuff. I don't like it when people touch my stuff without asking, eat my food, drink my drink, touch my station, use my cups....this could go on and on. I get nervous, edgy, and very angry. And this teller was touching my stuff. Now, I don't know why I've always felt this way. It's not that I didn't learn how to share in kindergarten; I share quite nicely, or, at least, I'd like to think so. But when someone takes something of mine, especially without asking, it triggers a chain reaction of thought and anger so quick, so powerful, and so violent that I hardly know myself when it comes. It takes everything in me to not say something, to throw something, to scream. It's just one checking account; there are plenty others. There's more food; there's a store down the street. Cups are reusable; it doesn't get damaged by someone else using it. But this irrational fear often pops up. And the inner kid in me screams, "IT'S MINE! DON'T TOUCH!"

Is this part of being borderline? Or just being mentally ill in general? Or am I just not mature enough to handle the basics of sharing?

Being Told I'm Not Normal Enough

I've just been told by someone else diagnosed with a different personality disorder that I don't have a strong enough perception of reality in my view of life. How is that for pot calling the kettle black? I'm done with people. I'm done with trying to date people who always leave after a couple of weeks. It makes me terribly sad. I hate being told that I need to "double down" on some therapy. I know I'm not perfect. But who are you to judge where a person is at in their mental illness?

I don't live with my family. I maintain a full time job. I pay all my bills. I feel like I'm coping relatively well with my diagnosis. And it's not like it's easy or something. I feel like I'm accomplishing something by getting to work on time. Hell, just getting to work is an accomplishment some days. I'm just so fed up with trying to explain myself, my position, my mental illness. Just because you're in more therapy than I am does not give you the right to tell me that I'm more fucked up than you. You're no professional. You've only talked to me a couple of weeks. Why am I wasting my breathe on you?

And now my sadness turns to anger.

I'm Scared of Myself

So I've started blacking out randomly. Sometimes I've had a few drinks. Sometimes it's just when I take my Ambien. But I think it's my Ambien that's key. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. A psychotic break or alcoholism would be too much to take right now. I know this job is stressing me out. I'm having nightmares almost nightly. I wake up sweating and remembering terrible feelings of dread, fear, and death.

I don't remember making my last blog post. That scares me. I know I've had conversations with people that I've completely forgotten because they remind me of them later. I promise to go places and to do things for people. Maybe my drinking has gotten out of control. Or maybe it's just taking Ambien way too early in my night.

On a positive note, I woke up really early this morning and was quite productive. I picked up my meds for the month and then took myself downtown for a nice walk. Downtown is where most of the tourists congregate because it's where the history is and where the beauty is. And I love to walk downtown. So it's what I did with my morning. And the smells of the houses and the marsh and the feel of the breeze made me so happy. I listened to my iPod most of the way, but when I didn't, I loved catching the conversations of a passerby. Sometimes they were tourists or tour guides talking about the history. Sometimes they were locals, rich locals, by the way, walking their dogs and making small talk. I felt like I belonged and that I stood out like a sore thumb all at the same time. It was refreshing and kind of uncomfortable. But I've heard that you should do one thing that makes you uncomfortable every day. I hear that saying a lot with regards to yoga.

I don't have a therapist and I have a new psychiatrist that I just don't like. I guess it's time to shop for another psychiatrist. And maybe a therapist this time. I just don't like going to therapy sessions. They really bore me. And it's makes me completely uncomfortable to talk about my problems to someone I'm paying. Something about therapy really bothers me. Oh well. Maybe it's time for a change.

Emotional Eating

It's so easy to fall into a trap of overeating and emotional eating. I believe most of my overeating comes from emotional eating. I just eat to fill some void, to feel something, to feel important. The feeling of full is like being drunk for me. I love to drink because I feel empowered by my drinking. I feel nothing can stop me. I'm invincible. And stupid for thinking so. Why do I need such crutches? But, most importantly, how do I get rid of these crutches? Any advice?

My Borderline

I put a lot of my mental illness into tangible form very often. I refer to "my borderline" whenever I refer to my mental illness. The jury's out as to whether this is a healthy or unhealthy thing. For example, I'll often say, "My borderline doesn't like change," which means that change really upsets my personality disorder. I truly identify with being a borderline. Perhaps because I don't have an identity outside of it. Or perhaps because that's one of the characteristics of a borderline: lack of identity. 

It's not that I want to identify with being ill. And I think we are ill. It's all a matter of managing this illness. But I feel that I've found a community of other borderlines and so, at least online, I'm quite comfortable identifying as a borderline. I'm not alone, like I was in the past. Ten years ago, when I was diagnosed, I felt quite alone. 

My family did not appreciate their daughter/sister being determined mentally ill. They still don't really accept it. Hell, I didn't want to be labeled mentally ill either, at the time. I rebelled against it for a good year before I came to terms with it. It was like killing the "healthy" facade I had of myself, even though I was no where near healthy. After some time and lots of reading, I came to understand borderline personality disorder and eventually accept it as my diagnosis. It was only then that healing could really take place. 

So now I own my borderline. I have control of it, at least for now. But I feel that control slipping. And that thought makes me nervous. 

How do you refer to your mental illness? Is it "your bi polar" or "your borderline"? Or is it something completely different? Or none of the above?

I'm So Easily Distracted

I love smells. I like to smell different things. I like the way my body smells when it sweats. I love body washes, perfumes, body scrubs, candles. I even made candles for a while. My sense of smell is something that grounds me. I feel so lost in this world. I'm so easily distracted. Bright shiny things, handsome sweet men, fast moving people. Time seems to elude me, yet I feel like I'm always waiting for what's behind the next turn.

I forget that I have this blog. I forget that I have things I need to do. I feel like I put things in the back of my mind on purpose in order to forget them. Because writing this blog is difficult, I choose to forget about it. I wonder what I'm forgetting about my past. I feel like there are things I'm forgetting. One night I woke up with the feeling of a man on top of me, trying to rape me. It took me a few minutes to realize it was just a nightmare, but it felt like a memory.

Smells ground me into happy or sad places. The smell of old, dry wood from the old houses downtown bring back happy memories of walking among the downtown streets. The musky, dark smell of a man's cologne can instantly bring me back into his arms. There's this body lotion and body scrub that I buy online that I'm simply addicted to. Haus of Gloi makes THE best stuff! I bought from them when they were on Etsy and followed them to their own website. Something about their scents just makes me happy. So I splurge on them. If I can find happiness in a scent, you better believe I'm going to follow it. Here's to hoping you find your scent.

Why I Now Dislike Birthdays

I recently hit a milestone birthday. I was not excited about it, but I was determined to make it fun. I wanted to throw a birthday party/get together at a cool restaurant/bar. My sister and I invited a bunch of people and had it published on Facebook. Despite people telling me they were going to be there and RSVPing on Facebook, no one showed up. It was me, my sister and her husband sitting at a big table in the restaurant. I was devastated. It took everything I had not to break down in tears. I realized yet again how unreliable people are. And then I wondered about these people I called friends.

Did I really have any friends? Wouldn't they have been at my birthday party? Am I too old for birthdays? Maybe I'm not a good enough friend and that's why they didn't show up. Maybe no one really likes me. Maybe these voices in my head have been telling me the truth all along. I am nobody, nothing, worthless, unloved, and unlovable.

I know that I stuffed a lot of my emotions that day deep down inside of me. When people had birthdays after mine, I secretly hated them. I hated that people showed up, including myself, for their birthday. I hated that I was alone on my birthday. When people invited me to do things, sometimes I'd make an excuse not to go because they didn't come to my birthday. I can really hold a grudge.

That day truly broke my heart and I'm having a hard time trusting people again. I'm getting ready to move into a new apartment with a new roommate. I'm terrified he'll find out how crazy I am. I'm also making new friends at work and actually spending time with them outside of work. And I'm terrified they, too, will find out I'm crazy. I'm afraid they'll hurt me, disappoint me and break my heart. Is it better to be alone than to have your heart broken by people you thought were friends?